Affinity
by Nadake
Summary: Long ago, an ancient spell gave the witchborne of the British Isles abilities the likes of which the Roman Battlemages could never expect. To each wizard, an affinity was given. A spell of whom they are the unrivaled master. A spell, with the same color as their vivid eyes. And Harry Potter's eyes are among the most coveted. His glowing green eyes, the color of Death itself.
1. The Boy with Emerald Eyes

"Boy!" A sharp, high voice shrieked, followed by a loud rapping on the metal grate. Inside the small cupboard, hidden away under the stairs of Number 4, Privet Drive, Harry Potter opened his eyes. Aunt Petunia rapped on the cupboard door again. "Get up, you worthless freak. I want everything to be perfect for Dudley's birthday today, and you are NOT going to laze about all morning!"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Harry called out, voice a little rough. He closed his mouth, and tried to swallow with a grimace. His throat was raw and dry. He hadn't had any water since yesterday morning. A little less hoarse, he repeated himself.

"Don't you dare let the bacon burn, either. If anything is wrong on my Diddy-kens special day, then you won't eat for a week, do I make myself clear?"

Harry felt a throbbing in his skull, the lightning scar on his forehead pulsing sullenly. He clapped a hand over the lightning bolt, gasping softly at the pain. He quickly removed the hand as he heard the click of Petunia undoing the heavy bolt that kept the door shut. She hated when Harry touched the scar, even if he just brushed his bangs aside. She would always yell at him to "Hide that disgusting mark!"

"Well?" Petunia snapped. Her long face seemed to have been frozen just after sniffing something foul, and her eyes were small and beady with distrust. She was wearing a thick bathrobe of a hideous pink floral print, and her brown hair was still tied up in its rollers from the night before.

"Sorry, Aunt Petunia." Harry mumbled, keeping his eyes downcast as he shuffled by. He walked down the short hallway, past the living room with its tiny fireplace. Past the small closet where all of Aunt Petunia's cleaning supplies were neatly organized (by him) until they were needed (by him) to clean something (usually whatever his cousin had just broken). Harry pushed open the kitchen door quietly, and heard Petunia snort as she turned away.

"Stupid boy."

Safely hidden in the kitchen, Harry rolled his eyes. He had been suffering the Dursleys' attentions for as long as he could remember. Ever since he was a year old, as his Uncle Vernon was swift to remind him, they had 'cared' for him. All they asked in return was that he pulled his own weight.

To be fair though, Harry doubted all three Dursleys would be able to pull Vernon's weight without the family car. His Uncle was a rich man, and he never let anyone forget that. The head of Grunnings, a company that manufactured drills, Vernon was fond of bragging about Mr. Spain or Ms. Sussex, or whoever his most recent business partner was, as though his rich associates were somehow important to Harry. Then again, maybe Vernon just liked to tell himself that if he was seen with enough famous people, then he would be famous as well. He was a rich man though, something he showed off with his fancy cars, and golden watches. Rich enough that his wife never had to work, his son could go to any school he wanted, and more than rich enough to feed his appetite. He even had his own servant.

Harry choked off the bitter thoughts, and set about making Dudley's breakfast. He pulled a frying pan off of its hook above the stove, and started cracking eggs. He had been cooking the Dursley's breakfast for so many years now, he didn't have to think about it anymore. Instead, he let his mind wander, a small smile twisting his lips. He wouldn't be here much longer.

He knew something the Dursley's didn't, had known since his eleventh birthday several days ago. He knew that he wasn't a freak, as his aunt and uncle insisted. He knew that his parents weren't lay about drunks who had been stupid enough to die in a car crash. He knew that he was a wizard, just like his father and mother. He knew that magic was real, and most important of all, he knew that soon, he would be free of the Dursleys.

Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The parchment they had written on was thick and it had a pleasant earthy scent to it. Harry thought that the scent must be the smell of freedom, of a world outside of the Dursley's house. He didn't know where in London the school was, he didn't even know if it was in England at all. It didn't matter though, as long as he wasn't in this house.

He had found the letter, addressed to him, a few days before. The thick parchment was far heavier than the bills that had been shoved through the mail slot with it, and Harry had noticed the weight. It took only a moment to notice the glossy seal, showing a red lion, green serpent, blue raven, and a yellow badger, all surrounding a large, ornate H. It was very peculiar, and if there was one thing the Dursleys were not, it was peculiar. Harry had been shocked when, after flipping the strange letter over, he had found his name written in a tidy hand.

Mister H. Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs.

4, Privet Drive.

Little Winging

Surrey

When Dudley, the fat son of his aunt and uncle, had offered to beat Harry with his Smelting's stick to get him to hurry up, Harry had hurried up. On his way back to the kitchen though, he had shoved the letter under the door to his cupboard, sure that the Dursleys would take it away from him if they saw it. That decision had been the best he had ever made in his life.

Harry felt his face split into a grin, one that was perhaps a tad vindictive. Just yesterday, another letter had arrived. It had also been addressed to an H. Potter, though it had been written by a sloppier hand than the first, and it had omitted the line about his cupboard. Seeing another letter of heavy parchment though, Harry had taken a chance, and nicked it. This letter had been from one Mr. Arthur Weasley, from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Muggle Liaison Office, Ministry of Magic.

Until yesterday, Harry hadn't even known there was such a thing as a Ministry of Magic, much less what a Muggle was, or how one could misuse their artifacts. Mr. Weasley had given a very thorough description of all three, which Harry thought had been incredibly kind of him. The Ministry of Magic was exactly what it sounded like, a government for witches and wizards, one that was hidden from the Muggles, who were non-magic folk like his Aunt and Uncle. Mr. Weasley seemed to think that Muggles were fascinating, and had added several post scripts asking about the function of everyday items like rubber ducks, and 'eceltricity.' The best part, for Harry, was the last line of the letter, though.

 _I will be arriving at your home at half past eleven in two days time, to help you buy your school things, and give you any information that you may need about your letter, or Hogwarts itself._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Arthur Weasley, Muggle Liaison Office_

The cacophonous thudding of his cousin's descent snapped Harry out of his happy memories. He schooled his expression once more into the neutral mask that seemed the only way to deter his relations. He knew it wouldn't help, not today, but the habit of avoiding notice was too hard to fight. He heard Dudley jump, slamming his bulk down on the step directly over his cupboard. Then the boy waddled down the last few steps, and ran into the kitchen as fast as his pudgy legs would carry him.

Harry heard Dudley stop as soon as he was in the door, and hurriedly slide the bacon onto the waiting plate. He swirled the grease in the pan, making sure all of the metal was slick, and quickly cracked half a dozen eggs to go with the bacon. As the eggs began to sizzle, he divided the bacon into three portions, with the majority going to his cousin's plate. While his Aunt and Dudley were busy, Harry slid a few of the burnt crisps onto a small plate, the meager remains would be his breakfast.

"Thirty-six?" Dudley asked, voice trembling slightly. Harry, already expecting an explosion, began to wolf down the bits of bacon he had kept for himself. "Last year I got thirty-seven presents."

"You forgot to count the present Daddy's friend from work sent you, Duddums. Here is it, behind the big one from Mummy and Daddy."

"But, but that's only…" Dudley trailed off, obviously thinking hard. Harry tried not to choke on the last of his bacon at the sight of Dudley pondering. He almost expected him to start poking his head and muttering "Think, think, think."

"Tyke wants his money's worth." Uncle Vernon chuckled, walking into the kitchen. His Uncle was built like a particularly corpulent walrus, complete with a ruddy face and an enormous mustache. While he ruffled his son's hair, Harry slid the fried eggs onto their plates, and quickly rinsed and cleaned the pan. Aunt Petunia would skin him alive if he let anything dirty sit in her kitchen for even an instant. "That's right Dudley, never let them cheat you."

"Now I only have thirty-seven." Dudley pouted. The expression jutted his lower lip out, and made his extra chins wobble. His voice began to rise as he started working himself into a proper rage. "B-but last year I had-had thirty-seven!"

"We're not done yet, Duddums!" Aunt Petunia jumped in quickly, obviously sensing the same tantrum Harry had. Harry, meanwhile, was scarfing down the last of his bacon as fast as he could force it past his gag reflex. It wasn't unusual for Dudley to overturn the table when he threw a tantrum, and he liked punching Harry in the chaos. "You forgot about your surprise present!"

"Huh?" Dudley asked, forgetting to squint his eyes through faked tears. Harry stopped eating for a moment, looking up with a strange mixture of dread and hope. Maybe the Dursleys would be taking Dudley out for the day. He had been talking about how much he wanted to go to the new zoo in West Sussex. Could the Dursleys be planning on taking Dudley? That could be good or bad for Harry. On the one hand, he wouldn't have to deal with the Dursleys, and could fully enjoy the prospect of what was going to greet them tomorrow just before lunch. On the other, it meant he would probably have to spend the day with Ms. Fig, the old woman who lived down the street with her seven cats.

Then the doorbell rang.

"Ah, there she is." Uncle Vernon said brightly, folding the morning newspaper and setting it on the table. "Why don't you go meet our guest, Dudley?"

Harry's heart sank, coming to rest somewhere in the vicinity of his toes, or maybe a few metres below. Only one women would make his Uncle smile that way. His sister, Aunt Marge. She wasn't really Harry's Aunt, since Aunt Petunia had been his mother's sister, but he had always been forced to call the horrible woman Aunt all his life. She was vile, almost as fat as her brother, and made her living by breeding foul tempered bulldogs on her country estate. The woman never failed to bring the ugliest, meanest of her litter with her either, a gnarled old brute named Ripper.

She showered praise, gifts, and kisses on her nephew. Her fat nephew, that is. Harry; Marge pretended didn't exist half the time. When he was worthy of her notice all she did was comment on how much left to improve he had.

" _That boy needs to shape up, Vernon. Bad form, slouching over like that. A good caning ought to teach him to stand straight."_

" _Should teach the boy respect. If he were mine, I'd have beaten that idiocy out of him."_

" _Show some respect boy. You should be begging Vernon to allow you to stay here, feeding and taking care of you like he has all these years. If you had shown up on my doorstep, I would have sent you straight to the orphanage."_

Harry gritted his teeth as he heard the door open, and a woman's rough voice yell "Surprise!"

"Now, you listen here, boy." Uncle Vernon said menacingly, leaning over the table towards Harry. "You will behave yourself, or so help me…"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon." Harry gritted out through his rigid smile. He could hear a pair of heavy steps moving towards the kitchen, and braced himself.

"Vernon!" Marge called, sweeping down to give her brother a hug. Harry thought it looked like two whales trying to wrestle, and he had to choke down a laugh.

It was going to be a long day…

A long day it was. Marge had brought that damned dog with her, again, and Ripper hadn't taken his eyes off Harry all day. The bad tempered beast had never liked Harry; its beady eyes tracked his every movement.

Marge herself wasn't any more pleasant, though she at least wasn't about to bite Harry. He hoped. Instead, she had been lambasting him all day. It was her favorite pastime, it seemed, to compare Harry to Dudley, finding only faults in the former. Harry had bitten back several scathing retorts already, listening to Marge as she extolled Dudley's many (imaginary) virtues. She once more reminded Harry of how grateful he should be to his Aunt and Uncle for taking care of Petunia's wastrel sister's snotty brat.

He had thought his smile was about to start shattering teeth as she expounded upon how big and manly Dudley had become. Dudley had demonstrated his Smelting Stick, a piece of wood his school encouraged each boy to carry, to jab each other when the teacher wasn't looking. He had done so by beating Harry about the head with it, while the smaller boy tried to duck and avoid the caning. Marge had laughed, barking at him to stand still already, and take it like a man.

Today had been hell. Harry had managed, barely, to resist the urge to throttle Marge during dinner, and now all three manatees were sitting on the lawn, waiting for Petunia to bring out a pair of brandy's and a lemonade for Dudley. Harry was in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor while the three of them lounged about in the garden.

"So, how did my Neffy-Pooh enjoy his special day?" Marge asked, indulgently. She let out a heavy sigh, and settled herself more comfortably in the chair. One hand strayed down to scratch Ripper's ears, and the bulldog's stumpy tail wagged in pleasure. "Did you like my presents?"

Dudley grunted, already fiddling with the air rifle Marge had bought for him. Harry already knew that the gun worked, having felt several pellets smack into him a few minutes ago. He rolled his eyes and scrubbed a little harder. Marge had spilled some of the brandy before the Dursley's had moved to the garden, and the stained linoleum was stubbornly refusing to clean itself.

"Course he did." Vernon said, chuckling. "Can't remember when I've seen him that happy."

"Vernon?" Marge asked in a loud whisper, serious now. Beside her, Ripper turned away from Harry for a moment to give his owner a worried look. "I have some concerns about that boy."

Harry saw her flip a hand in his direction, and watched in morbid fascination as the blubber of her arm rippled with the motion. Vernon looked over, and grunted again, leaning back to sip the brandy Petunia handed him. "What about him?"

"What about him?" Marge huffed, tossing her own drink back, just like she had the last three. "The little freak shouldn't be in school, Vernon. You've seen how he behaves, he should locked up before he does something dangerous."

"What?" Dudley scoffed, and he sneered at Harry. "Like he could be dangerous."

"I'm serious." Marge lowered her voice to a harsh whisper as Vernon laughed. "Look at him. He's too quiet."

Harry, who had been glaring at the cow, quickly dropped his gaze, and began scrubbing more ferociously. The movement hid the shaking of his hand. He had been suffering the idiot woman's insults and degradations all day, constantly reminding himself of the letters, the wonderful letters, hiding under his bed in the cupboard.

"No boy has ever turned out good when his parents are scum. Same with dogs. Bad blood will out. If there is something wrong with the bitch, then there will always be a problem with the pup. Breeding's about more than just looks. It's about – _hic_ \- about temperament too. Look at Ripper here. Looks like something the cat threw up, but he's as sweet as an angel.

"That," she went on, nodding her head at Harry, who had begun to stand, stretching his back after finally cleaning up the mess. "That's what happens when you have bad blood, Vernon. Messy hair. Bad attitude. Like mother like son, isn't that right Dudley? You turned out sensible, like your mum. But that, that boy. You said his mother did what?"

"Nothing." Petunia snapped, like she always did when her sister was mentioned. "Lazy little layabout. Probably on drugs too, and I just know she was drinking as much as her filthy husband."

"Might be it. Boy looks like one of that trash. The ones who smoke and drink and all that ruckus. Say, I've an idea, Vernon."

"What?"

"Brutus." Marge said, and gave a very satisfied sigh.

"I don't understand." Uncle Vernon said, finishing off his brandy and setting the glass aside.

"St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys." Marge said with relish, and hiccupped again. Raising her voice, she turned to Harry and pointed to her brandy glass. "You. Boy. Take this away."

"Coming, Aunt Marge." Harry gritted out.

Marge didn't wait for him to reply, but continued speaking to her brother. "It's a secondary school near here, and they specialize in freaks and layabouts. They don't take that, namby-pamby approach either, Vernon. You misbehave, and they cane you. Best part is, it's a boarding school, you'll never have to see him again, if you sign for him to stay over the summers."

He should have known. He was angry, and whenever he was angry, bad things happened, usually to him. When Dudley's mates were taunting Harry, as soon as he got angry, Dudley would show up and start pounding on him. When he got angry, the dishes he was cleaning would shatter, even though he wasn't touching them, and Aunt Petunia would scream and then lock him in his cupboard. When he was angry, bad things just happened.

This time, his misfortune was named Ripper. He wasn't paying attention to his footing. He was working too hard to control his face, and didn't see the trouble before it was too late. His foot came down, hard, on something bony, and a furious howl made him look down. He had stepped on Ripper's paw, and the dog lunged forward, sinking his teeth down into Harry's leg with all the strength that his breed was known for. Harry yelled. Vernon yelled. Petunia and Marge yelled. They all whirled to watch as Ripper jerked, and Harry went to the ground with a hard thump. His head hit the patio hard, and stars burst into his vision. Then Ripper began to shake his head.

Harry didn't really remember what happened. He just remembered the dogs thrashing head as he tried to snap Harry's leg in half. He remembered reaching out, trying to pry the yellow teeth apart long enough to get his leg clear. He remembered the fear, and the pain, and the molten rage at the stupid animal's vicious attack.

He never remembered what happened when his hands touched Ripper. The cold rush of power that flowed through him, out through the tips of his fingers. He didn't see the flash of green light, hidden in the short fur of Ripper's neck. He didn't hear the rush of wings as the magic flooded out of his body. He just knew that suddenly, Ripper's jaws were slack on his legs, and he was wrenching his bloody shin out of the mongrel's mouth.

"RIPPER!" Marge screamed, dropping to her knees beside her treasured dog. Her pudgy hands shook as they gently touched the dog, and she choked out a sob. "Dead. Vernon, he's dead."

"YOU!" She screamed, whirling. Her fingers twisted into claws, and she raked at Harry, grabbing his arm before he could step away. "YOU KILLED RIPPER! I'LL KILL YOU, YOU FILTHY BASTARD!"

Harry wasn't thinking, there wasn't time. Her other hand lashed out, and he gasped as her nails tore at his cheek. He shoved his not-Aunt away from him, pushing with all his strength against her bulk. This time, he did hear the bang as Marge was hurled away from him, dropping to the ground in a boneless sprawl.

"MARGE!" Vernon and Petunia yelled, and both rushed over the woman lying on the lawn. Dudley hadn't moved, but his hands were shaking on the rifle in his hands, and his piggy little eyes were wide with sudden fear. "She's alive. Petunia, call 999."

Petunia stumbled to her feet, and started towards the house. Before she had taken two steps though, there was a loud CRACK!, and a man wearing what appeared to be a long crimson robe was suddenly standing on the patio. This was too much for his Aunt, and Harry watched Petunia's mouth open in astonishment, before her eyes rolled up and she dropped into a dead faint.

The man's face was hidden by the deep shadow of his hooded cloak, but Harry caught a glimpse of something shiny, before the man raised the slender wooden stick high into their air, yelling "STUPIFY!"

Harry had an instant to wonder what on earth this man was, and what he was doing, before a torrent of red light burst from the tip of the man's wand, flooding the little lawn with crimson. As the light rolled out from the man, Harry saw a flash of his face, scarred and mangled to something only vaguely human, and a large, shiny glass eye. Then the red light slammed into his chest, and his world suddenly faded to black.


	2. Moving Forward, Diagonally

Hello all. I hate it when writers add disclaimers and whatnot to the first chapter, so I didn't. And I hate seeing them, so this is the only one. Blah-blah-blah, I don't own Harry Potter or its characters, et cetera, ad nauseum.

Anywho, I hope you all are enjoying my story.

Hugs and Kisses,

*********Nadake********

"Now, just take a handful of the powder, and throw it onto the fire. Then, speak the name of the place very clearly, and walk into the flames. We're going to a wizarding area in London called Diagon Ally, so that's where you should tell the floo to go." Mr. Weasley gave him a small smile. "Watch what I do, and then you do the same."

He reached into the small flowerpot on the mantle above the fireplace, shook his hand a few times to dislodge any loose powder, and tossed it hard into the fireplace. Immediately, the embers roared into green life, and Mr. Weasley called out, very loudly and clearly, "Diagon Ally!"

"Diagon Ally!" Harry said, firmly. As he spoke, he threw the powder at his feet, and vanished. A moment later, he burst from another fireplace, landing on the floor with a heavy thud, and inhaling a cloud of dust and ash.

"And this, Harry, is Diagon Ally." Mr. Weasley said, beaming as he reached a hand out to help Harry to his feet. Harry jerked his own hand away from the older man, mumbling something about being alright. He pushed himself off the ground, rising to his feet carefully. Brushing the last of the dust and ash from the front of his jeans, Harry pushed his glasses back into place, and looked around.

He was in a small room, in what looked like a post office. He heard a rustle, and a soft "Hoo" from behind, and whirled in place. Along the far wall, surrounding the fireplace he had just exited, rested a flock of owls. Grey owls with tufted feathers. Brown owls with white faces. Large owls with fierce looking talons, and tiny owls he knew would fit on his palm with room to spare. A hundred drowsy eyes glared at the boy, who had dared to interrupt their sleep.

"Owl Post." Mr. Weasley chuckled, seeing Harry's wonder. "It's like a muggle post office, except with owls. Marvelous birds, owls. They can see your magical core, and they are able to find almost anyone, if they know who the letter is being sent to. See the little tags under each perch? Color coded, depending on how far you want the letter to go, and the little number on the tag is how heavy the parcel each bird can comfortably carry. Now, if I remember right, its two knuts for a red tag, that's local delivery only. Ah, there it is, three knuts. But over here, the international flights, see the little yellow tag? You need a big, strong bird to make it over the Channel, and even as fast as these owls can fly, it takes a few days, even if they already know where they are going. So its five sickles if you want a yellow tag, and another two if it's a parcel."

"Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked, trying to keep this deluge straight.

"Yes, Harry?"

"What are knuts?"

"Lords of Light, I forgot." Mr. Weasley slapped a hand to his balding pate, and Harry chuckled. "I'm sorry Harry, I always forget that muggles have that strange money system. A knut is the smallest coin in the magical world, we use goblin coins around the world, it makes life simpler for everyone, and the goblins refuse to use any wizard currency anyway, so we haven't much choice.

"So, a knut is one of these," Mr. Weasley said, pulling a small handful of coins from his pocket, and pointing to the little bronze one. "A knut is the smallest coin we have, like I said, and there are twenty-nine knuts to a sickle, one of the little silver ones. There are seventeen sickles in a galleon, those are gold coins, but I'm afraid I don't have any. But, just last week we updated the conversion between galleons and pounds, so I can tell you with the utmost surety that a galleon is currently worth about a hundred pounds."

Mr. Weasley's chest swelled importantly, obviously proud of his part in the regulation. Meanwhile, Harry's heart sank. Uncle Vernon had been a wealthy man, and having Harry around meant he could get by very cheaply when he needed something done around the house. He wasn't a very intelligent man though, and he, and more often Dudley, were sloppy with their money, leaving bits and pieces here and there that Harry found while cleaning. He had almost forty pounds in cash and coins hidden in his closet at Privet Drive. His abrupt departure had robbed him of even that small wad of change that he had managed to save, and the pockets of his trousers turned up nothing more than a penny, and a small bit of fluff.

"Mr. Weasley." Harry said, looking down. "I'm afraid I don't have any money. Is there some way I can work-"

"Nonsense!" Arthur cried, clapping Harry on the back. "Did you really think that you were unique? Not that you aren't very special my boy, very special indeed, but you aren't the only young witch or wizard that has come from a muggle family for some reason or other. No, the Ministry has a small fund set up to pay for school supplies, and Hogwarts has always accepted students free of charge. Come to think of it, I'm sure that your parent's have a vault in Gringotts. In fact, we should go to Gringotts first, anyway. Come on Harry."

Mr. Weasley clapped Harry on the shoulder, making the young boy jerk nervously, and tugged open the post office door. A blast of sound shattered the room's quiet, and more than a few owls hooted their displeasure, flapping their wings irritably. Harry took a step forward, and entered the seething throng of Diagon Ally.

"It's not usually this crowded!" Mr. Weasley shouted over the crowd. He was shoving his way, as politely as possible through them. Looking back, he chuckled to himself, watching Harry twist and turn, trying to look at everything. Eeylops Owl Emporium, a dark shop with several golden cages hanging by the door, each with a gorgeous owl staring regally out over the crowd. Harrieta's Hairy Hounds, where several breeds of dog Harry had never seen sat panting, from massive boarhounds, to what looked a terrier with a forked tail.

Agatha's Alchemical Supplies. The Leaky Cauldron. Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Dame Diantha's Greenhouse of Wonders. Shop after shop lined the packed streets, and Harry wished he had about eight more eyes, just to see everything that they passed as they jostled their way by. He could have sworn he saw a tiny dragon flying about one of the shops, belching a gout of tiny flames. In another window, a man with fangs snarled at him, a rope of white hair jerking tight as the creature lunged. Harry gasped as the rope burned the man's skin, making him howl at the soundproof glass, clawing at his throat.

"Here we are, Harry!" Mr. Weasley's shout jerked Harry away from the creature, a rakshaasa according to the plate under the window. "Gringotts Wizarding Bank."

Harry turned to look ahead, and gaped. Gringotts was a building, the same way Uncle Vernon was cruel. The word was accurate, but it couldn't convey the sheer depth, artistry, or splendor of the bank. While the shops around it were made of wood, and many were a little shabby, Gringotts was resplendent in white marble that gleamed in the morning sun, light flashing off the wide stone steps and the elegant columns.

At the top of the steps were a pair of massive doors at least two stories tall, made of what appeared to be wrought iron. Coiling about the black metal were gold and silver design's some of flowers and birds and deer, but many more appeared to be scenes of battle between wizards and smaller creatures that Harry assumed were goblins. He wasn't even shocked to see that the figures moved about running towards one another across the plane of iron. The small figures didn't seem to have wands, but were charging forward with axes and knives of brilliant silver, batting aside the golden wizard's spells.

A pair of men in cerulean robes flanked the doors, each scanning the crowd with bored eyes. Each had a hand resting negligently on the base of wands stowed in the same kind of holster that Moody had worn. The taller of the two noticed Harry, and smirked. "First time to Gringotts, lad?"

Harry shut his jaw with a snap, and flushed slightly. The guard, and his friend, both laughed. They spotted Mr. Weasley, and the tall man waved to him, calling out "Hello, Arthur. How're the kids?"

"Morning Geoff. They're fine, Molly's taking them shopping later today. I was just taking young Harry here to check his vault, and then I was going to meet them. What about Thaddeus, already bought all his supplies?" Mr. Weasley asked the shorter man, who grinned.

"Aye, you know how the boy is. Can't wait to get all his new books every year. I'm just glad he's finally dropped Ancient Runes, books were setting me back a year's pay, felt like. Your youngest is about to start school this year, isn't he?"

"Youngest boy." Mr. Weasley corrected him with a fond smile. "Ginny, my daughter, will be starting next year, but Ron is going to be on the train this September."

"Right. Well, you take the boy and go- bloody hell. Arthur, is that who I think it is?"

"Timothy." Mr. Weasley started, a note of warning in his tone as the younger man peered at 's forehead. The short man jumped up and down, pointing at Harry's scar.

"Blimey. Geoff, it's him. It's Harry Potter."

"Blimey," Geoff muttered, peering at Harry. "So it is. Oh, calm down Tim. You're a bloody Hitwizard, act like it."

"Sorry," Tim muttered, abashed. "Um, enjoy your visit to Gringotts, Mr. Potter."

"Merlin's beard, Tim." Geoff groused, rolling his eyes. "We still need to check him."

"What? Leave off it, he's Harry Potter. Why would he be bringing something Dark with him?"

"Doesn't matter," Geoff said, shaking his head in annoyance. "Rules are rules, and we have to check him over. What if he's under the Imperius? Or maybe someone is Polyjuiced?"

"Hadn't thought of that…" Tim mumbled. "Right, please step forward, and hold your arms out from your body."

Harry glanced at Mr. Weasley, who gave him a kind smile, and nodded. The older man stepped up to Tim, holding his arms out, and Harry mirrored him. Both of the guards pulled out slim golden rods from a second holster on their belts, and waved them slowly along Harry's body, first along each arm, and then passing up and down his front and back. The rods made a soft humming sound, and Harry's scar tingled as they neared his forehead. After a second pass, Tim stepped back, smiling.

"Right, now you can go in, Mr. Potter. It was an honor to meet you, sir." Tim said, bowing from the waist.

"Er, no problem." Harry muttered, smoothing his hair down again. He was getting the unpleasant feeling that this motion was going to become a habit. As they approached, Geoff turned, and tapped his golden rod to the iron door. The heavy iron doors swung open as he tapped, silent despite their bulk. Mr. Weasley smiled at him again, and he and Harry walked into Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

The floor of the bank was the same gleaming marble as the steps, except that here, the marble was inlaid with elegant designs of gold. The designs ran the length and breadth of the large room, all the way to the long counter of polished wood that ran the length of two walls, dotted here and there with doors. Behind the counter, small creatures with large noses and sharp toothed sneers bustled up and down. Some were scribbling on parchment with large feathered quills, while others were examining coins of gold and silver and bronze with scales of black metal. A few of the tellers were busy with patrons of the bank, but the majority of the goblins were working, or glaring at the wizards who had entered their domain.

"Stay close to me, Harry. We're on Goblin territory now. Just try to remain polite, and whatever you do, don't turn your back on one of them." Arthur said softly, beckoning Harry to follow him to the open teller farthest from the few other patrons.

"Why not?" Harry murmured back, glancing curiously over his shoulder as the doors swung magically shut behind them.

"It's a sign of disrespect to them, and once you lose a goblin's respect, you've lost the respect of the entire Goblin Nation. And believe me, they can make your life miserable if you offend them."

"Um, okay then." Harry muttered, trying to avoid eye contact with any of the creatures. They were nearing the tell, and Harry could make out the name Griphook in golden letters emblazoned on the counter facing them. "So, what will I have to do to see my parent's vault? If they have one, I mean."

"Oh, they had a vault, Harry. At least, your father surely did. The Potter's are an old family, and your Father was the head of his House, so if nothing else, whatever remains of the Potter fortune is in there. Of course, you won't be able to access the family vault until you are of age, but they probably set up a trust vault in case something happened to them. And if not, then Hogwarts has a fund to help poor students. You might have to buy some of your school things second hand, but you'll manage." Mr. Weasley finished with a smile, coming to a stop in front of Griphook.

"Yes?" The goblin said curtly, looking down his long nose at them.

"I'm here escorting Harry Potter." Mr. Weasley said firmly. At his words, the goblins all black eyes seemed to sharpen, and he fixed Harry with an interested gaze.

"And does Mister… Potter, have a key?"

"I'm afraid not." Mr. Weasley shot Harry an uncomfortable look, and leaned in to whisper something to the goblin. Griphook's eyes widened momentarily in shock, before he set another calculating gaze on Harry. Harry got the distinct impression that the goblin was trying to estimate just how much he was worth.

"Very well," Griphook said to Arthur, before turning to face Harry directly. Harry kept his eyes on the goblin's refusing to look away. "Now, Mr. Potter, as you do not have your key, I will need to perform a linage test, to affirm that you are in fact, the son of James Potter, and Lily Potter. Take this quill," he said, handing Harry a small quill that had a dangerous looking tip. "And prick the forefinger of your wand hand. Then set the quill on this parchment, and we shall see if you are who you claim to be."

Harry turned to Mr. Weasley, who looked uncomfortable, but nodded at him to continue. Harry fought back the sudden fluttering of his stomach, and gently took the quill from Griphook's long fingers. Transferring the quill to his left hand, he held his right out, palm up on the counter. Swallowing, he set the sharp nib on the ball of his finger, and pressed hard.

The quill's tip sliced through his fingertip easily, coating the black tip with scarlet. Harry winced as the quill pulsed, and seemed to drink in his blood for a moment, before a quick burning made him jerk his hand away from the black thing. He curled his right hand into a tight fist, and set the quill tip down on the parchment.

As he watched, the quill in his fingers jerked suddenly, and he quickly dropped it. Instead of falling through, the quill began to shudder, still resting on its tip. Then, it suddenly shot to the center of the parchment, and began to scrawl large, elegantly looping letters in crimson.

Harridan James Potter

Son of James Charlus Potter and Lily Abigail Potter, nee Evans.

Heir of House Potter

Heir of House Slytherin

Scion of House Ravenclaw

Griphook twitch the paper away, glaring at the words, before turning his gaze to Harry. His beady eyes were narrowed, and after a moment, a smile that would have sent sharks fleeing split his lips. Never breaking eye contact, Griphook bowed low over the counter. "Greetings, my Lord."

"Um…" Harry began, a little unnerved by the sudden change in Griphook's behavior.

"Thank you, Griphook." Mr. Weasley said, making the goblin turn to glare at him. "Now, since you've affirmed that he is who he says he is, can you please check whether or not there is a trust vault in place that he can draw upon?"

Griphook surveyed Mr. Weasley carefully for several long moments, every now and then flicking a suspicious glance at Harry, before finally nodding. "Very well."

He hopped backwards and after nodding to them both, walked along behind the counter, leaving through a nearby doorway. After he vanished into the black entrance, Mr. Weasley let out a sigh, and shook his head. "Always the same." He muttered.

"Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked, turning to look up at the man. "What did all that mean? About me being the heir to those Houses. They weren't talking about property, were they?"

"No, they weren't. Apparently, you are a member of the direct line of Slytherin and Ravenclaw, or at least the most direct descendent still alive. As well as being the son of James Potter, who was the Head of House Potter. Basically, you are a member of those families, which gives you certain rights in our society, as well as a seat in our government, once you are of age and collect your inheritance. And as for being the heir to them all, it means either you are the last surviving member of those families, or that you are the oldest surviving member of their direct lines."

"Oh," Harry said, digesting this information. His head felt like it was going to explode, he was learning so much about this new world. Before he could ask any more questions though, Griphook returned, hopping up onto what must be a small stool hidden behind the counter, and slapped something onto the wood.

"Your key, Mr. Potter. In his will, your father requested that you be allowed access to a trust vault that will be contain five hundred galleons, to be refilled annually, as well as the annual attendance fee for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to be handled separately, and the sum to be drawn from the Potter family vault. This key will allow you to access the trust vault, vault 836, and upon your claiming of your inheritance, it will also allow you to enter vaults eleven, twelve, and twenty-five."

"Thank you," Harry said, reaching for the key, but Griphook didn't release it.

"Mr. Potter, this key is attached to not one, but three of the most secure vaults in the wizarding world. As such, I would be very careful about whom you allow to even see it. Should they touch it without being tied to those Houses as well… Let us say it is my hope that they have informed you of their next of kin."

Harry gulped, but nodded his head at the goblin, who slid the key forward and removed his hand. Harry slapped his own hand down over the key, sliding it carefully off the counter, and looking to Griphook. "Um, would it be possible…"

"Yes?" Griphook asked, another carnivorous smile spreading his lips. He could taste a deal coming.

"Would it be possible for me to make a uh, a purchase, and have you take the money from my trust vault?"

"A purchase already Mr. Potter? I can see you will be a well loved patron of Gringotts. Am I to assume that you wish to purchase something now?"

Harry nodded, and tightened his hand over the small key. He could feel his palms sweating as he griped the metal. "Yes, could I get a chain or something to hang the key on?"

"Ah," Griphook said, and rubbed his hands together. "Am I to assume you would like goblin forged silver?"

Harry looked to Mr. Weasley, but the man only blinked at him numbly. "Er, I think so. How much would the chain cost?"

"For goblin silver?" Griphook asked, and Harry thought that there was genuine surprise in the midnight eyes. "Several hundred galleons, Mr. Potter."

"That much?" Harry asked, annoyed. Were these goblins no better than his Uncle? Were they just trying to steal as much money as they could?

Griphooks eyes narrowed, and his lips lifted in a snarl. "Do not insult my people's craft, boy. Metal forged by goblins in nearly impervious to damage. Goblin steel imbibes that which strengthens it, and our silver consumes any enchantments that touch it, save those laid upon it by its rightful owner. Once purchased, the only person who would be able to cast a spell upon it would be you. Not even the greatest of wizards, nor the finest goblin spell-smith would be able to so much as heat the metal again!"

"Oh," Harry said, and he had to force himself not to retreat under the angry goblins tirade. Straightening his back, he glared back at the little creature trying to scare him. "Then I would like to buy one."

"Harry," Mr. Weasley began, but Harry turned to look at him, and the older man jumped. "Erm, I just wanted to say, you should be very careful about making such a… large purchase so early. I mean, you don't even know if you will be able to buy your school books yet-"

"Irrelevant," Griphook sniffed, looking disdainfully down his nose once more. "A trust fund is not at liberty to make such massive transactions."

"There, you see-" Mr. Weasley began, relieved, but the goblin cut him off again.

"As such, the fund will be withdrawn from the account that feeds the trust, in this case, the Potter Vault. Once more, Mr. Potter." Griphook drew another roll of parchment, and pricked his finger. Quickly, and twice more loading the quill with his own black blood, he wrote out a bill, listing the promised goods, and including a list of expenses, before writing his own name and drawing a line. "Sign on the line. The total cost of the chain will be two hundred and sixteen galleons, six sickles, and twelve knuts. The Potter Vault currently holds seven hundred and fifteen thousand galleons in liquid assets."

Mr. Weasley choked, hearing the number, and Harry thought his eyes were about to fall out of his head. "How much?"

"Approximately seventy million pounds." Griphook said, as though he dealt with such massive accounts on a daily basis. No need to let these two know that the Potter Vault was one of the wealthiest in Gringotts, and that simply conducting this transaction would skyrocket his career. Of course, a goblins career wasn't measured in galleons made, but assassinations survived. He would need to start sleeping with a third knife.

Harry nodded mutely, and cut his finger once more, signing his name in his own heart's blood.

"Very well Mr. Potter. Your item shall be mailed to you the moment it is completed. Will that be all, or would you like to make another purchase?"

"No!" Mr. Weasley yelped, stepping forward. He couldn't let the boy spend any more money than he already had. "Erm. What I mean is, Harry, I think you should simply request a purse of coins to buy your school supplies with."

"Would you like to exchange currency?" Griphook asked, annoyed. He might have gotten a few more galleons from the boy.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Arthur said, determined to get Harry away from the goblins as quickly as possible. "Gingotts has several purses that you can take with you. Once you take the purse, then remove the value of the coins in it from your vault, since most wizards don't like to ride in the carts the goblins use for transport."

"Okay." Harry said, turning back to Griphook. "Could I have one of those purses then?"

"Of course, Mr. Potter. What size would you like to take?"

"The hundred galleon purse, thanks." Mr. Weasley said, and Griphook snarled at the man. Arthur held his ground though, and the goblin snorted through his long nose, before scuttling down the counter a ways. He tossed a small bag onto the counter, and Mr. Weasley swiftly stowed it in a pocket. "Thank you, Griphook. Now, Harry and I must really be going. Lots to buy still."

"May your days be bloody." Griphook growled, flicking a hand at the wizard.

"Come on, Harry" Mr. Weasley said, hurrying back across the marble floor, and leaving the bank. He nodded to the pair of guards, but kept moving before either could speak. Harry gave them a wan smile, and then hurried after the older man into crowd.

Mr. Weasley walked like a man on a mission, and the inhabitants of the Ally noticed. Before him, the crowd parted to either side, leaving just enough room for the tall man, and the young boy behind him, to pass through quickly. Moving quickly through a thick crowd is, of course, only relative, and Harry had plenty of time to look at the many shops he had missed on their first pass. It was only now dawning on him just how many witches and wizards there must be in England, and he spoke loudly enough to be heard over the crowd. "Mr. Weasley?"

"Hm?" Mr. Weasley hummed, turning his head back and forth as they came to a stop outside of Flourish and Blotts Booksellers.

"Are there any other places like this?"

"Other places like, oh, you mean places where witches and wizards gather?" Mr. Weasley glanced down, and Harry nodded, thinking. "Well, of course there are a few. Hogwarts, and most of the surrounding area is covered in extremely powerful muggle repelling charms, so anytime a muggle comes nearby, they remember an urgent appointment and dash off. Hogsmead is a town near the castle, and it's only inhabited by magicals as well. The Ministry and St. Mungo's, that's a magical hospital, they can both be accessed by Muggles, but a wizard has to take them past a series of defenses meant to deter them. Then there's Diagon Alley, and Knockturn Alley is just over there, but you shouldn't go there."

"Why not?" Harry interrupted.

"Its… dodgey. A lot of Dark stuff ends up in Knockturn Alley, and… things live there. Werewolves, hags and the like. Nasty place, and nothing useful there, unless you want to muck about with evil magic."

"Then why is it allowed at all?"

Mr. Weasley gave him a wry smile. "Truthfully, quite a few reasons. One of the biggest is that the Ministry thinks it is safest to have a place like Knockturn Ally, one that they know about, and can monitor, rather than let all those dark things run about on their own. While they are here, we can watch and make confiscations of the really-"

"ARTHUR!" A woman yelled, voice slightly muffled, and Mr. Weasley jumped. His cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and he gave Harry a quick look of pleading. Behind them, the door to Flourish and Blott's swung open, and a comfortably plump woman stormed out. She was almost a head shorter than Mr. Weasley's gangly height, but the man seemed to cower before her.

"Now Molly, I can explain-"

"Explain!" She snarled, and jabbed a finger into his chest. "Arthur, you promised to come with us today, and instead you vanish. Probably cavorting with muggles, again, instead of helping me get the children's supplies for Hogwarts, which starts tomorrow, might I remind you!"

"But-"

"Let me guess, you were interrogating some other helpless muggle about how to fix that dratted car of yours, weren't you?"

"No, I was-"

"Do you have any idea what Fred and George have been doing? You know how much trouble they are when they are bored, and I needed you to help me with them."

"But-" Mr. Weasley shot Harry another pleading look, and the young boy cleared his throat.

"Ahem." Mrs. Weasley, Harry assumed that the woman must be Mr. Weasley's wife, halted her fresh tirade, and glanced at him.

"What is it, dear?" She asked, and though he could still see the anger in her eyes, she gave him a kind smile. "Do you need help finding anything?"

"No, actually," Harry said, glancing at Mr. Weasley. The woman's tone annoyed him for some reason. "Mr. Weasley was helping me."

"Oh?" Mrs. Weasley asked, confused. "You must be a new student at Hogwarts then?"

Harry nodded, trying to stifle his annoyance. She was only trying to help. "Yes ma'am. Mr. Weasley came to the Ministry and brought me here, and he has been helping me with money and things."

"Money?" she said sharply, whirling on Arthur. Tyring to keep her voice down, she hissed at her husband. "Arthur, you know we don't have anything to spare!"

"Molly," Mr. Weasley placated. "I was only helping young Harry to access his Gringotts accounts, and then I was going to bring him with us while we shopped for Ron's school supplies. Ron is in your year, Harry." He added as an aside.

"Harry?" Molly said, thoughtfully. Then her eyes widened, and she peered at Harry's forehead and gasped. "Harry Potter?"

Harry nodded, and Mrs. Weasley stared open mouthed for a moment. Then her eyes watered, and she spread her arms, saying "Oh you poor dear."

Harry jerked back violently as she approached, and Mrs. Weasley stopped, looking hurt. Harry's back was to the bookshop window and he was staring wide eyed at the woman, who turned to her husband.

"Harry, erm, he doesn't like being touched, Molly." Mr. Weasley looked almost as uncomfortable as Harry did.

"Oh. Of course." Mrs. Weasley said, blushing as several passersby stared. "Well, of course you can accompany us, Harry dear. We were just looking through for schoolbooks while we waited for Arthur. I'm sure Ron will be able to help you find anything on your list."

Mrs. Weasley turned and walked back into the store, still blushing a brilliant red, and Harry was amused by the way her ears burned almost the same color as her cheeks. Glancing at the chagrined Mr. Weasley, who nodded and followed his wife, he found that it was a family trait, as his ears and balding head were both flushed as well. Patting the pocket where he had stowed his Gringotts key, Harry followed them into Flourish and Blotts.

Flourish and Blotts was filled to bursting with witches and wizards, but mostly witches, all clamouring about this book or that, what the Hogwarts curriculum would be, and if Gilderoy Lockhart would sign her leg. A young witch, obviously very excited, squeaked beside her mother, asking if Mr. Lockhart would sign her copy of, Magical Me!

Harry turned to ask Mr. Weasley who this Lockhart person was, only to find the balding man surrounded by a gaggle of children. Each and every one of them had hair the same brilliant orange as their parents, and most of them were yelling at their parents and each other. Concealing a wince at the cacophony, Harry slipped away, pulling out his school booklist from a pocket.

It was the first time he had been alone, relatively, since he had woken up in the Ministry that morning. Even if he was still surrounded by people, he wasn't surrounded by people actively watching him, which was a relief. He didn't like the attention that Mr. Weasley and the other people from the ministry paid him, it felt wrong. After all, it wasn't his fault that this 'You-know-who' had vanished. Even if it was, why was he famous for something he couldn't even remember, something that nobody had ever seen? For all anyone knew, the real hero that night had gone into hiding.

Irritably, Harry flattened his bangs, and almost bumped into a tall young man. "Whoops!" the boy yelped, snatching Harry's arm to keep him from falling into one of the many bookshelves. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

Harry shook his head, jerking his arm out of the boy's grip. Surprised, the boy let go of him. "Bloody…" the boy said, eyes drifting to the flash of Harry's scar. "You're…"

Harry looked away, edging away from the boy, and disappearing into the crowd again. The boy stood there, confused. A few moments later, an older man pushed his way through the crowd. "Got your books Ced?" He asked.

"I saw him, Dad." Cedric Diggory said, still staring at where Harry had been.

"Saw who?" Amos Diggory asked.

"Harry Potter."


	3. The League of Elderly Gentlmen

Author's Note: Well, I certainly hope that this is the final one of these that I shall be posting, save some drastic circumstance of which I shall endeavor to keep you appraised.

Now, the reason for this note, and what I forgot to mention in the previous chapters, is a nod to the inspiration for this fic. For those of you who know or care, the inspiration for this, and indeed the entire premise of affinities for magic, comes from a prompt by HonestLunarRaven. And while it did begin as a story from that prompt, my greedy little muse started wandering in all sorts of different directions. As such, I can't really say that this story is a response to his prompt, but I do feel that I should credit the cause for this story, which has truly caught my imagination, and I hope, your attention.

Hugs and Kisses,

Nadake.

"Ah, there you are Harry." Mr. Weasley said, relieved. "We've been looking for you."

Harry looked up, holding his page. His emerald eyes were glazed over as he stared back at Mr. Weasley. He was ensconced in the small corner of the store devoted to enchanting, which, according to the copy of Mors Supra Omnus, was the process of empowering an object with magical energy. Wand making was a small branch of enchanting, though it was one of the most complex.

"Um, well." Mr. Weasley said, obviously uncomfortable. He lifted up a stack of books. "Anyway, if you would come with me, we can purchase your books, and then go on to buy a wand."

Harry nodded and reshelved the book. Standing, he took the books from Mr. Weasley's arms, and made his way out of the alcove, and towards the front of the store. By now, the news that Harry Potter had been seen in the store had spread, as an excited Amos Diggory told everyone he could find. As Harry walked through the crowd, he heard more than one wizard turn to their neighbor, and whisper in a loud voice "Is that Harry Potter?"

The attention was beginning to annoy him, and Harry moved faster, still careful to avoid touching anyone. Suddenly, a hand clapped down on his shoulder. "See Ced? I found-"

Harry whirled, books tumbling from his arms as he spun to face Mr. Diggory. What happened next was over too fast for anyone to tell in what order they occurred. There was a flash of emerald light, and Mr. Diggory went flying into the shelves behind him, bowling several people over as he did. In the next instant there was a trio of loud cracks as two auror's and an ancient wizard appeared in the bookshop. The aurors, in their crimson robes, leveled their wands at the Boy-Who-Lived, while the old man lifted his wand high, and bellowed a word.

"Stupify!"

A wave of red energy pulsed from his wand, and just like the man in Privet Drive, the witches and wizards in the shop dropped unconscious the instant the red magic struck them. Harry saw the wave rush at him once more, and felt it pass through him with enough force to rock him back several steps. Unlike the others though, he remained standing. A faint green glow surrounded him as his eyes darted from one auror to the other.

One of the men was tall, almost as tall as the old wizard, and his skin was almost black in the candlelight. He had pale silver eyes, without pupils that Harry could see, and the utterly impassive gaze was more than a little unnerving. His wand was short, compared to that of the old wizard and his companion, and made from a wood almost as dark as his skin. He had a large silver earring in his left ear, and his strange eyes were fixed on Harry

The other auror was the man from Privet Drive, with shaggy hair and his wildly moving eye that seemed to tumble in its socket. In the light, Harry could see that his glass eye was a vivid electrical blue. The man's other eye, though, was the same carmine as the pulse of magic he had just cast, and it was steady on Harry's face. He could also see that something had savaged the man's left leg. It was misshapen, from what he could see under the robe, and seemed lamed. In fact, the entire left half of the man's body seemed to have been brutally burned by something. The skin, wherever it was visible, was twisted and scarred, almost like his body had been half-melted, with a vicious scar gouging canyons into the man's face, like he had been savaged by some beast that had been after his eyes. Harry almost didn't notice the man's wand, a long piece of pale wood that seemed almost as gnarled and twisted as the man holding it.

The last man, the old wizard who had stunned the room, was a stark contrast to the aurors. His robes were a brilliant silver, with small creatures gamboling about the hem. He sported gold rimmed glasses, perched precariously on a nose that had obviously been broken more than once, and he had the longest beard Harry had ever seen, tucked neatly into his belt. His wand was long and thin, with odd, bulbous protrusions scattered along its length. It took Harry a moment to notice the twinkle of amusement in the old wizard's blue eyes.

"Kingsley, Alastor, lower your wands." The old man said, chuckling. "Young Harry doesn't even have a wand yet."

"Albus," the scarred man growled, keeping his wand fixed on Harry's face. "He didn't have a wand when he killed the family dog, either."

Slowly, Harry raised his hands in the air. In the television shows Dudley liked to watch, the policemen always wanted you to put your hands where they could see them. He wasn't entirely sure that these men were the magical police, but showing he was unarmed probably wouldn't hurt. After a moment, the dark man, Kingsley, lowered his wand, and gave Harry a smile, showing very white teeth.

"Hello Harry." He said, and Harry was shocked by how deep the man's voice was. It seemed to echo in his chest. "Do you think you can tell us what happened here?"

"I don't know." Harry said, slowly. His hand were still in the air, but he ducked his head in the direction of Mr. Diggory's body. "That man grabbed me, and I turned around, and he was flying back."

"Alastor?" Albus asked, looking to the scarred man. His voice was aged, sounding like a whisper even when speaking loudly, but nonetheless carried a tone of firm authority. The auror didn't turn, but his false eye did roll back, like it could stare through his skull. A moment later, the man grunted.

"He's alive. He'll have one hell of a headache when he wakes up, but he doesn't need a healer."

"Good." Albus murmured, as if to himself. This he smiled, and spoke loudly. "Why don't' you come out Gilderoy?"

"Blast," a man muttered, seeming to step out of thin air. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing," the old wizard said, turning to smile at the man. "But I thought to myself, what would I do?"

Gilderoy Lockheart was the man Harry had seen signing books when he entered Flourish and Blotts, with his boyish grin and golden curls. Harry had thought Kingsley's smile was bright, but Lockheart's was positively blinding. After just a moment, Harry would have dismissed the man as just some American ponce, were it not for his eyes.

He had blue eyes, the color of a robin's egg, cheery and bright. But the man behind those eyes, behind the cheery smiles and giddy happiness, was someone old. Not like Albus, but more like the age Harry could see in Kingsley and Alastor. He wasn't sure why, but Harry got the feeling that this man could be very, very dangerous if he chose to be.

Lockhart rolled his eyes, and gave Albus an easy smile, before turning to Harry. "Well, Mr. Potter, it seems you have caused a bit of a ruckus, haven't you?" He said, nodding at the window facing into the crowded street of Diagon Alley.

Harry turned, and saw that the traffic passing by the shop had paused, witches and wizards peering curiously into the bookstore. One man, rather shorter than the rest, had his long nose pressed up to the glass. Every breath the man took would fog the window, and Harry got the impression that the man was balancing on tiptoe to peer over the windowsill. The man noticed Harry looking back at him, and from his the bottom of the window, Harry's scar was clearly visible. The man bounced, and fell backwards into the crowd. Quickly, Harry turned away.

"Ahem," Albus cleared his throat. "Perhaps it would be best if we were to explain things to Harry somewhere less…" He trailed off, looking to Alastor.

"Destructible?" He grunted, his twisted face contorting into a small smile.

"Yes, quite. Kingsley, if you and Gilderoy would be so kind as to help wake everyone, and explain to Mr. Weasley that I will be returning Harry to him after a short conversation?" Albus paused, and then added. "If that is what Mr. Potter wishes, that is."

Kingsley nodded gravely, while Lockhart's boyish locks bounced in his enthusiasm. Without another word, the two began to move among the unconscious bodies, waving their wands over each and mutter an incantation. Light flickered from their wands, bathing the person for a moment, and then the witch or wizard would wake with a start. The few witches Harry saw Lockhart revive jerked, until they saw him smile down at them indulgently. They would promptly feint once more, and Kingsley would sigh, and move to revive the woman.

"Harry?" Albus called softly. Harry turned to face the man, and saw that one of his long arms was outstretched. "If you would take my hand?"

Immediately, Harry drew away from the old wizard, drawing his hand to his chest, and clasping it in his left. His eyes narrowed, and he stared hard at the man for several long seconds. Albus seemed confused for a moment, before his mouth opened in a tiny "ah," of comprehension.

"Harry, I promise you will not hurt me. And I will explain what is going on, but we need to leave this shop for me to do so. Mr. Moody," he looked at the grizzled auror. "Will accompany us, and then I will return you to Mr. Weasley safely, if that is what you want. However," he said, and his voice took on a tone of gentle, yet stern, command. "I must insist that we speak."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, his voice a little hoarse. Albus gave him an encouraging nod, and Harry remembered a snippet of conversation he had once overheard between his aunt and nephew. She had been warning him to stay away from strangers. That the 'freaks' were dangerous, and would do awful things to her Diddykins. Slowly, Harry reached out, and took the old wizard's hand.

Albus had a gentle grip, with just enough force to hint at the strength of character hidden behind his twinkling blue eyes. "This will feel rather uncomfortable, I'm afraid," he apologized, giving Harry a small smile. "But it will last only a moment."

Then Harry felt the world contract around him. It felt as though he were being crushed, then squeezed through a tiny tube at high speed. Everything turned black, and Harry could only catch odd flashes of colour streaking past him as her was dragged along behind the wizard. Then, just as Albus had promised, it was over, and he appeared in a small village with a tiny pop.

After the thick crowds of Diagon Alley, this village seems almost devoid of life. They stood off of what appeared to be the main road, in front of a building whose sign had a large boar's head, complete with apple, resting on a platter. The words 'Hog's Head' were scrawled in untidy red paint underneath, apparently added as an afterthought. A few witches and wizards passed by o the main street, but the only thing moving on the dirty road they stood on was a small black cat, and a goat. When the goat saw the old man, though, it bleated, and vanished. It was gone so quickly, Harry was sure magic had to have been involved.

"Ah," Albus hummed, watching the space the goat had recently occupied. He had that same small mysterious smile on his lips as he quirked an eyebrow. "Well, this is Hogsmead, Harry. Like Diagon Alley, it is a wizarding community, and muggles cannot find the town. It is the village attached to Hogwarts, as a matter of fact, the school where I am headmaster."

"Um, okay?" Harry asked, gently tugging his hand out of the man's grip. Seeming to notice he was still holding the boy's hand, Albus let go, and smiled down at him.

"Would you like to step inside? While it isn't the cleanest establishment, nowhere is better for a private conversation than the Hog's Head. Why, I've even held reviews of new professors in this very pub." Albus chuckled. He started towards the door, and held it open for Harry to follow.

The inside of the pub was certainly not clean. It was, in point of fact, filthy. For a moment, Harry felt his stomach lurch, and the impulse to grab a rag and begin cleaning the thick scum of dirt and grime caked into the floor threatened to overcome him. Growing up with Aunt Petunia, who seemed to have made it her mission in life to exterminate every spec of dirt that had the impudence to enter her abode, had ingrained a rabid aversion to filth in him that made his skin crawl as he walked through the room.

Dust covered every surface that wasn't occupied by one of the cloaked patrons. The glasses were all lined up neatly on shelves behind the bar, but each and every one was opaque with dust. The man standing behind the bar was almost as tall as Albus, and had a beard that rivaled the other man's. But where Albus' robes were brilliantly bright, and as spotless as his beard, Harry got the strong impression that this man hadn't showered since the last London Blackout. His long nails were chipped, and the tips were almost black with dirt. He was wiping the inside of a mug with a rag that looked roughly as filthy as he was, and which seemed to be a futile action if Harry had ever seen one. The man looked up when they walked in, eyes focused on Albus. He continued to wipe the mug.

"Ah, Aberforth," Albus said, smiling. "I was wondering if I could borrow the upstairs room to have a little chat with Harry here."

The bartender grunted, eyes still fixed on Albus, as were the eyes of every other patron in the room. There was another crack from behind them, and Moody came stumping in through the door Albus had been holding open. The scarred man didn't pause, limping his way to the back of the room, and walking through the small door in the rear wall. Still smiling, Albus followed him, beckoning for Harry to join him. Loathe as he was to walk over that floor, Harry gritted his teeth and followed the wizard, trying not to touch anything.

When he passed close to several patrons, he felt a gnarled hand snap out to grip his arm. An ancient hag roughly jostled him, pulling him closer to her for a moment. Her long, warty nose came close to his as she peered at him through milky eyes. With a furious jerk, he tore his arm from the witch's grasp, sending the old woman toppling from her perch.

She sprawled across the floor at Harry's feet, cradling the hand she had thrown out to catch herself. Harry didn't wait to see if the witch was alright. He stepped around the woman, and raised a hand to brush the filth he could see smeared on his shirt. The patrons stared in shock as he strode past, emerald eyes flashing. Nobody moved to touch him as he passed, and the hag's muffled moans of pain were the only sound in the room.

He strode through the door along the back wall brusquely. As soon as he walked through doorway, he heard a shout, and saw light blast from a wand. The orange spell slammed into his shoulder at the same time as he heard the Auror roar "ACUMENS!"

The spell's impact sent him reeling, slamming his nose against the wooden frame of the door. Harry heard the distinct, and familiar, wet crunch as his nose was flattened, and blood poured. Coming to his senses, he struggled to his feet, grasping his nose with one hand, while the other was raised before him, in a somewhat feeble attempt to protect himself.

"Slow, boy." Moody grunted, stumping towards Harry. His wand disappeared back into the holster the Auror wore on his hip, and he grabbed Harry to steady him.

"Alastor!" Dumbledore said, voice cracking like a whip. Moody froze, hand only inches from the glaring Harry's shoulder. "I think that Harry would prefer that you didn't touch him."

Harry stared at the old wizard for a moment, before nodding his head slowly.

"I'm afraid Alastor is somewhat prone to suddenly... testing others." Dumbledore continued, apologetic. "I am sorry Harry, I was not ready to counter his hex before it struck you. I had thought that, considering your unfamiliarity with our world, he would restrain himself."

That last bit Dumbledore said with disappointment and exasperation in his words. Moody, however, merely snorted. "Him being new won't stop some Death Eater from cursing him, Dumbledore."

"He doesn't even have a wand yet." Dumbledore sighed. He had a small smile though, and the words had the resignation that hinted at a very old, friendly argument between the two.

"All the more reason to be on guard." Moody said, turning to look at Harry. "Just because you can hurt people by touching them, boy, that doesn't make you any better against a trained wizard. Without your wand, you're a sitting duck, and I'm not the only person who'll take advantage of that. I'm the only one who will be nice about it."

Harry glared at the man, who met his emerald gaze with his own vivid eyes. The twisted mess of Moody's mouth was turned up, in what Harry thought was a smile though.

"Harry, if you could please sit, I would be happy to heal your nose for you. There is much we must discuss, and you will not be able to focus well with a damaged nose." Dumbledore said, in a grandfatherly fashion. He lifted a hand to his own crooked nose. "As I can sadly attest."

Warily, Harry moved into the room, sitting at the small table with Dumbledore. Moody didn't move to the table, but instead took to leaning against a nearby wall. His arms were crossed, but Harry noted that his right hand was less than six inches from his wand.

So focused was he on Moody, that he didn't even notice when the taller wizard drew his pale wand, pointed it at Harry's face, and flicked it in a quick series of motions. Harry did notice when the burning pain in his nose, not unlike having two glowing coals held to his flesh, suddenly lessened. There was another silve shock of pain as he felt his nose click back into place, but that too was gone in the next moment.

"There, that's better now." Dumbledore said genially. He flicked his wand at Harry again as he continued. "Episky. Now, as I said in the Alley, there is much that we need to discuss with you, Harry. I am sure, by now, you've realized that your magic reacts when you are touched?"

Hesitantly, Harry nodded his head. Then he grimaced, feeling that he needed to explain. "I don't know why, though. I've never done… that, when Dudley and his friends punched me. Why does it happen now?"

Dumbledore winced, and Harry could hear Moody growl something under his breath from his wall. "I'm afraid, Harry, that I will need to ask you several difficult questions. I assure you, neither I, nor Alastor blame you for what has occurred in the last few days. However, we need to know the answers to these questions, or we may not be able to help you control your abilities."

Unsure, Harry nodded. "Okay."

"You said Dudley, your cousin?" Moody began, and Harry nodded again. "He and his friends used to punch you?"

Again, Harry nodded. "They called it Harry-Hunting. They would chase me, and if they caught me, they would… well, usually Piers and Humphrey would hold me, and Dudley would punch me."

"And did anything happen to them?" Dumbledore gently prodded, eyes hard. "Did you ever feel angry, or afraid?"

"All the time." Harry mumbled, looking down. "But they were bigger and stronger than I was. I couldn't do anything about it."

"DId they ever get hurt? While holding you, or later? Did anything mysterious happen to them?"

"No," Harry shook his head. HIs green eyes began to glow as he growled. "They never got in trouble or anything. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia told the teachers I was dangerous. So even when they were caught, Dudley just told them that I had started the fight, and I would get in trouble for it."

"You got in trouble for them holding you up and beating on you?" Moody asked, voice sharp.

Harry felt himself flush with angry embarrassment. He looked down at the table, but nodded his head.

"And can you remember any other times something strange has happened near you? Any time that someone made you angry and got hurt?" Dumbledore asked quickly, cutting Moody off with a stern look. The scarred Auror glowered at him, but nodded sharply.

Harry shook his head, but paused. "Nobody got hurt, but I remember something strange when I was eight."

"What was it?"

"I was weeding the garden for Aunt Petunia, and I remember a snake talking to me."

"A snake?" Dumbledore asked, shocked. From the wall, Moody's head fell back and he barked with laughter.

Harry nodded to Dumbledore, glancing at Moody. "What's funny, sir?"

"Because if you can talk to snakes, you're a Parseltongue. Morgana's saggy left tit, the Prophet's going to have a field day with that."

"Parseltongue is a very rare ability, Harry. So rare, in fact, that there are only one or two born a century. They are the last known variety of magical polyglot, a witch or wizard who can speak with animals, in the world. Though there are a few rumors of several tribes in the Americas who have magical polyglots, though they usually are able to converse with animals such as bison and deer."

"More to the point," Moody said, rolling his eyes at Dumbledore's tangent. "Almost every well-known Parseltongue was a Dark Lord or Lady. Some of the darkest spells also use snakes, so people tend to get antsy near a Parseltongue."

"So I'm a Dark wizard?" Harry asked, angry and confused. He wasn't even sure he knew what a Dark Lord was, but the way Moody was talking about them, he suspected that they weren't nice people.

"Not at all, Harry." Dumbledore comforted the boy. "What Alastor meant was that it is a rare ability, and it will likely make people nervous. While most parseltongues throughout history have simply been members of their community, some of the darkest wizards in history are very well known for the ability. The most recent Dark Lord being the example everyone will think of."

"Most recent?" Harry asked, stunned. "How many have there been?"

"Ninety-three, in Britain." Moody chuckled, laughing harder when he saw the look of consternation on Harry's face. "A dark lord pops up every two or three decades, Potter. Most aren't that much of a problem, more a nuisance than anything. But every few hundred years, one of the bad ones comes around. The average dark lord just makes a bit of a stir among the ruling families, typically supported by the Dark families, and opposed by the Light ones. If he's got balls, or at least more balls than brains, he might even stage an attack or two. About as difficult to deal with as your typical murderer. Not fun, and it's messy, but not really that difficult."

"Last century," Dumbledore smoothly took up the conversational baton. "Last century saw not two, but five dark lords. And the two most recent dark lords, Voldemort and Grindelwald, were terrors. As Alastor said, rather callously, most dark lords are a problem, but not a true threat. Those two, however, threatened everything about our way of life. You have attended muggle primary school, correct?"

Harry nodded, thoroughly thrown by the sudden shift in topic.

"Then you have a somewhat better understanding of just how gruesome the World Wars were than many of your wizard contemporaries."

Harry paled slightly, mind quickly providing the horrific, black and white pictures of what those wars had been. They had been brought up in primary school often enough to sear them into his mind.

"Grindelwald was the wizard responsible for both World Wars, and for more crimes that the muggle world isn't even aware of. He was a dark lord the likes of which haven't been seen in the world for nearly two thousand years. He was horrifically strong, and he only grew stronger as millions died to sate his dark rituals."

"What he won't tell you," Moody chuckled darkly. "Is that Dumbledore was the wizard who dueled Grindelwald to a draw several times, and finally killed the son of a bitch."

"Alastor-" Dumbledore began, reproachful.

"No, Albus, take the damn credit. You put that dog down when nobody else could." He growled, seemingly angry over something Harry couldn't understand. He turned to the boy then, and spoke with a measure of pride for his friend. "That's why Albus is considered the greatest wizard alive. If he hadn't stopped that monster, the Continent would be a crater, overrun with Inferi and who knows what other abominations. An Inferius is a corpse, animated by some of the darkest magic in the world, and used as an almost unstoppable killing machine. Takes five wizards to stop one, and Grindlewald was planning to make millions. That's the real reason behind the Deathcamps, to feed that madman.

"After Grindelwald, though, along comes Voldemort." Moody continued, ignoring Dumbledore's attempt to speak. "He wasn't anything like Grindelwald. By the time World War Two rolled around, Grindelwald was old. Ancient. He looked the part of the aging necromancer to a T. Voldemort though… nobody really suspected that he was just as bad as Grindelwald until it was too late. He was young, handsome, and had a way with words like you wouldn't believe. I heard one of his early speeches, and even I was tempted to join him. He talked about a wizard society free from the shackles of secrecy, talked about how the Muggles were destroying us bit by bit. Actually used Grindelwald as an example, how the war between wizards only became worse when the Muggles joined in. Damned if I didn't start to see things his way. It wasn't till later that his true colours started to show. He tortured and killed muggle-borns. If he hadn't started that, he'd probably have had more support than he did. Still, enough of the old families helped him, hated muggles and mudbloods alike, enough to let him start a full-scale war right here in Britain. If it hadn't been so soon after Grindelwald, he might have succeeded too, gotten enough power before anyone noticed."

"And they were Parseltongues?" Harry asked, growing increasingly terrified. He didn't want to be known as one of those dark lords. The thought of their atrocities made his stomach turn.

"Voldemort was," Dumbledore spoke gently. When Harry looked up, he saw that the old wizard was looking over his shoulder, staring off into the distance. "And I suspected Gillert was as well, though I never asked him, for obvious reasons. However, many of the most powerful wizards in history sported the ability, which is why the greatest dark lords were known to have the ability."

Dumbledore sighed, sounding even older than he looked as he did. "But we've long since left the topic at hand, and time passes ever onward. Can you think of any other times that something strange has happened to you?"

"Just the night when I, when I hurt Marge."

"I know it will be difficult, Harry, but I must ask you to try to explain what you felt at the time."

"I was angry." Harry snarled. "I was angry, and afraid. Ripper was on top of me, trying to bite me. I stepped on his tail, and he attacked me. Uncle Vernon, Marge, and Dudley were laughing, and he was on top of me. I was scared of his teeth, and angry that they weren't trying to help me. I… I felt something in my hands, a tingling, and I reached out to shove Ripper off. But when I touched him, he just… stopped moving. I pulled my leg from his mouth, and Marge started screaming about how Ripper was dead. Then she attacked me too.

"I was still afraid, but I was even angrier, and I shoved her away from me. I felt that tingling again, and then everything happened so fast. Uncle Vernon yelled something, and Aunt Petunia screamed. Then I heard a pop, and I woke up at the Ministry."

Moody grunted to himself in amusement. "It was me who stunned you, Potter. Tell me, did anyone talk to you before the Muggle Relations Office got there?"

Harry wracked his memory, but he couldn't think of anything that happened between when Mr. Weasley had shown up, and when he had woken up in that small room. He shook his head. "No, sir."

"Don't give me that sir shite, boy." Moody growled. "You're not an Auror, and until you are, I'm just Moody, or Mad-eye if you want. I hate being called sir."

"Alright s- erm, Moody." Harry corrected himself quickly, seeing the electric blue eye narrow dangerously. Harry turned back to Dumbledore. "Is there anything else?"

"Oh yes," Dumbledore murmured, seemingly lost in thought once more. "I'm afraid there is so much more, Harry. But it will have to wait until another time I'm afraid. There is only one thing left to talk about. Alastor, if you would be so kind?"

"Room's been sealed and swept since I walked in, Albus." Moody snorted, seeming affronted.

"Of course." Dumbledore smiled good-naturedly at his friend, and once again Harry felt something pass between the two that he couldn't quite discern. "Now, I believe that we've caught you before you bought a wand from Mr. Ollivander?"

Harry nodded, head spinning with how fast the pair shifted topics. With a mental shrug, he simply decided to focus on the matter at hand.

"Excellent, I believe we will save Mr. Ollivander a great deal of trouble then. How much do you know of wands, Harry?"

"Nothing," Harry hesitated for a moment, before adding a tentative, "Sir?"

Dumbledore seemed not to take offense, and simply smiled at Harry, eyes twinkling. "Well, there is one bit of wand lore that every wizard knows. The wand chooses the wizard, dear boy. They always have. And I am quite sure that this wand will choose you."

As he spoke, Dumbledore drew the long, pale wand from his robes once more, setting it gently on the table between himself and the boy.

"I cannot explain fully now, Harry, but this is a very special wand indeed. Please, pick it up."

Gingerly, Harry reached his hand out. Hovering a few inches away from the pale stick, he looked up to Dumbledore once more, receiving an encouraging smile and a nod from the old wizard. Gently, Harry let his fingers rest on the cool wooden handle, before carefully picking it up from the table.

When nothing happened, Harry relaxed slightly.

"Tell me, Mr. Potter." Dumbledore urged gently. "What do you feel when you hold that wand?"

"Nothing." Harry said, confused. What was he supposed to feel?"

"You cannot hear it singing?" Dumbledore prodded, only to have Harry shake his head. The old wizard leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in thought. "Curiouser and curiouser." He murmured.

"Sorry." Harry mumbled, moving to lay the wand back before Dumbledore.

"Keep it." Dumbledore said, lifting two fingers to stop Harry. "Though she does not sing to you yet, I'm sure you will hear the song one day." He seemed lost in thought for several long moments, before suddenly smiling. "I suppose it is a good that you needn't bear that burden yet. However, until she does sing, I believe that no wand will suit you as well as that one. If you have any difficulty casting spells as the school year progresses, I urge you to speak with me, Harry."

"Okay?" Harry mumbled, thrilled and embarrassed at being given something by a man he didn't even really know. He most certainly didn't know how to react to such a gift. "But why would the wand sing to me? Isn't it just a stick?"

"Wands are very powerful tools, Harry." Dumbledore explained with a smile. "While some powerful wizards can cast spells without wands," he gestured at the table, where a delicate tea set suddenly appeared. "They will never be able to use magic in as refined and controlled manner as they could with a wand in hand. They are the most versatile of all the foci, and by far the most common. As to why that wand will sing to you… I shall allow her to explain in time."

"Albus!" Moody growled, suddenly turning to face the door. "Fudge."

"Of course," Dumbledore said with a weary sigh. "Harry, I must ask you to keep our conversation about that wand private for the time being. Do take care of her though. I believe that Mr. Ollivander will know how to tend her properly."

"But-"

"No time, boy." Moody growled stumping over to the door. "Just keep your mouth shut about the wand if the fool asks you about it."

Harry froze for a moment, thinking. There was so much being thrust upon him at once, an entire world he didn't even know existed yesterday. But Dumbledore and Moody hadn't done anything to hurt him, they had actually helped him quite a bit. He would keep their secret for now.


End file.
